


you and me, we've got this (maybe, sortof, eventually)

by jadeddiva



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2456138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeddiva/pseuds/jadeddiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Captain Swan Season 4 one-shots and drabbles from Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. this love does not bend, this love does not break

**Author's Note:**

> Post 4x02

He does not let her go.

 

She’s semi-conscious on the way home, her nose buried in his neck, her arms around him, and he does not let her go the entire way to the loft (she thinks that he might, that his grip will falter because she feels so heavy, so heavy and cold and yet he doesn’t, not even in the car, he keeps her clutched to him, he does not let her go).

 

His hand is warm in hers, his fingers entwining with her own (they fit, how did she not know how well they fit together, have they ever held hands before?). His nose brushes her forehead, his breath is hot on her face (she doesn’t mind, she is freezing from the inside out and he is so freaking warm and she likes this, likes the way that he does not let go when she feels like she will fall away).

 

“Some second date, huh?” Emma asks, sipping the hot cocoa Henry makes for her, feeling his laugh throughout her entire body (he hasn’t let go).

 

“Not entirely what I was expecting,” Killian points out, voice low, and she shifts to look at him, sees the concern in his eyes and the way that he looks at her, like he’s still not certain she’s quite real. “Then again, I’m never quite sure what to anticipate when it comes to you, Swan.”

 

“I know – I would have thought you’d want my clothes off, not more layers piled on,” she says, the words sounding way more provocative once they leave her lips than when she thought them in her mind, and she blushes (he does too, and he lets her go only momentarily, fingers tensing on her shoulder before extending, flexing against the blanket).

 

“Your father wouldn’t be too pleased to hear you say that, love,” Killian chides her softly, glancing over her shoulder. She hears the low murmurs as her parents talk to Elsa, tell her what they will do to help her find her sister.

 

“What, did he give you the talk or something?” she asks, glancing over at his face, watching the emotions cross, the discomfort and unease as he looks back over her shoulder, “wait, _did he_?” She’s thirty one years old, she doesn’t need her father giving boyfriends the third degree – she didn’t even have that in foster care - she’s going to have to talk to David, she knows it -

 

“Did he what?” Killian asks (chin up, change the subject) and she shakes her head, smiling because he’s so ridiculous, and she knows him so well by now, knows exactly what he will do when she presses him and she doesn’t mind – it’s part of who he is.

 

“Did he ask what your intentions were with me or something?” she presses, and Killian just pulls her close, presses his nose into her head and inhales, a movement she feels with her entire body because she is still in his arms, still feels the gentle motion of his fingers against the blanket.

 

“You and I both know your father likes to affect a certain swagger where his daughter is concerned,” Killian points out, and she sighs.

 

“Sounds familiar,” Emma remarks, and Killian frowns, looking put out, but it softens immediately when she shifts and puts her cocoa down. She turns, looks at him completely, watching the way that he can’t seem to stop looking at her, appreciating how he can’t seem to stop touching her.  She can’t stop looking at him, either, can’t stop touching him – doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t care that her parents are there, seeing him at the edge of the cave did things to her she doesn’t understand fully but doesn’t want to forget, either.

 

“I thought I lost you today,” Killian says finally, fingers threading through the tips of her hair, twirling them around his fingertips. “Whatever your father said to me, I hardly think now is the time to dissect it word for word, not when you’re here – not when you’re safe.”

 

“Some other time, then.” Emma agrees, shifting slightly. “That looks uncomfortable – want to sit down?” This chair is more than big enough for the two of them, and regardless of what happened when she was behind that ice wall, she’s where she wants to be now, and if her parents have a problem with it, then they can talk to her.

 

It takes some maneuvering to get him in the chair, and her in his lap, but the warmth from his body starts to thaw her right now, and she likes the way that it feels to rest her head against his shoulder, to hear his heart thundering in her ear, to know that he is with her.

 

Emma takes a chance. “So if you were going to take me on a real date – one without ice monsters or giant ice buckets…where would you take me?” she asks, moving her arm around his neck, threading her fingers through his hair, feeling the warmth of him in her arms.

 

His fingers play with her hair, the movement soothing, and she likes that – likes this. Likes the way his voice is calm, low, his words for her ears only as he tells her about what he would do – the quiet dinner he would arrange, the music that would play, the champagne (“how do you know what champagne is?” “I’m a pirate, not a savage, love”) and the atmosphere, his voice calming, his presence warm and steady. And all the while, he does not let her go.

 


	2. palm to palm (hold on tight, we're almost there)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post 4x02 from Killian's perspective.

**palm to palm (hold on tight, we’re almost there)**

 

When she is sufficiently warm enough -after they stay up past Henry’s bedtime, drinking hot cocoa and asking Elsa questions about Arendelle – it is decided that Emma will stay with her parents tonight. The young prince is already in bed so her mother and the snow queen help Emma upstairs, Henry trailing behind with blankets and the small heater in his arms.

 

(There is a final moment, a final glance between them as she turns for the stairs, and Killian’s not entirely sure what it means, but he feels like it means she’s thankful for his presence.)

 

“Will you be all right, walking alone?” David asks as he opens the door, and Killian wonders if it’s out of concern or a need to finish their earlier conversation.   He shakes his head: with the snow queen here, behind these doors, and Regina behind her own (and the Dark One trapped behind marriage vows), Killian is the most frightening creature in Storybrooke at the moment – unless you count Granny, of course.

 

He shakes his head, not just because he can take care of himself, but because he needs to think.

 

The prince pats him on the shoulder, mumbles something about his help and it being invaluable, and Killian’s sure that he makes some noise in reply, but the door is shut behind him and he’s already down the stairs, that conversation drifting from his mind.

 

Instead, he focuses his attention on his hand.

 

He’s spent many hours teaching himself to be able to do everything one-handed that he could have used two for – an arduous process, but worth it, in the end. And yet, he cannot help but flex his fingers, because even though he feels warm, they still feel cold.

 

He has three hundred years of experience dealing with the phantom pain of his left hand, and the lingering pain of his right being used so frequently. He’s learned to adapt, learned to adjust, learned to remember to fight despite his loss of limb.

 

And yet, he can’t remember the last time someone held has hand, or entwined their fingers through his own (and yet, the cold chill in her palm which became a fierce, burning heat the longer she held him - that is seared in his memory like a brand).

 

He wants to forget the way that she clung to him, fingers in his hair, because remembering means that he will also remember how close she was to death, how he could not get to her (could not save her).   But he does want to remember the way that she leaned into him, the feel of her in his arms, his nose against her hair, the smell whatever shampoo she uses, bright and crisp like flowers in a meadow or the first rays of sunshine (and he has been in the dark for so very long).  

 

He wants to remember the feel of her hand in his, and to feel it again soon. He does not want the first time they’ve held hands to be tainted with the bitterness of nearly freezing to death, wants it to be while they’re walking through town or (even better) when they’re alone. He wants it to be how she wants it to be, and that is yet another thing he’s curious about.

 

Emma Swan does not keep counsel with anyone but herself, and prying the truth out of her is like prying meat from a crab – a delicate, time-consuming process that is ultimately worth it in the end, but there is always the struggle to get to what you want. He does not know what he means to her (she tells him to be patient, and she has no idea how patient he can be when it comes to her) but she will not tell him everything, he knows that. Everything he wants to hear from Emma will be found in the small smiles when they are alone, the desperate way she clung to him tonight, the movement of her hand in his, bringing them closer together, gripping him tighter.

 

And that, Killian thinks, is something worth waiting for.

 

The lights in Granny’s diner are on, the sound of merriment echoing through the quiet street, and when he enters the establishment, there seems to be a celebration.

 

“Pull up a chair, Captain,” Granny shouts over the noise, “we’re having oysters tonight!”

 

Killian does what he’s told (he’s not joking about being slightly intimidated by the old woman) and soon there is a plate of hot oysters in front of him, battered and fried and probably delicious like so many things in this realm are.

 

“On the house – need to use up the stock before it turns,” she tells him, and he nods.   It’s only then, when Granny turns away and he notices the others around him, not really seeming to care too much that he is there, all deep in their drinks and their food, that he takes a moment and flexes his hand.

 

He misses his ship, but he knows he could learn to love this place as much as he did the _Jolly Roger_ – as much as he loves Emma.


	3. playing dress-up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s nervous, more than nervous, this is something new and exciting and her mother has dressed her up like she’s always wanted to do. In retrospect, that’s the point when she should have realized that something was wrong. Speculation for 4 x 04, based on the idea that this is just an act and they’re both playing the part.

The dress is her mother’s, but the idea is all her own.

 

Mary Margaret fusses with the neckline of the pale pink dress (Emma doesn’t wear pink, Emma doesn’t even think there’s anything pink in her closet, just blacks and grays and whites, varying shades of neutral because she doesn’t do color). Pink is a color for girls who drive Benzes to school, who are soft and sweet and Emma has never been either of those things, not even with Neal.

 

She watches in the mirror as Mary Margaret zips up the back (she takes a deep breath – this dress is _tight_ ) and ties the ribbon around the waist into what Emma assumes is a delicate bow.

 

“There now,” Mary Margaret says, running her fingers lightly down Emma’s shoulders, “don’t you look beautiful.” There is a smile, wide and bright, across her mother’s face, and Emma can’t help but mirror it, even if she’s not quite sure she believes it. The dress fits but she can’t breath, and the color’s all wrong, her hair pulled back (her mother’s doing as well) and she just…this is more than nerves, she knows it.

 

She had only meant to ask about a restaurant in this town other than Granny’s - after all, if she was going to ask Killian out (which she did) she wanted to take him someplace nice, someplace where they wouldn’t be stared at by the cranky residents of this town or accidentally run into her parents or her son.  

 

Emma asks at breakfast (she is staying with her parents because she misses them, and because her room at Granny’s feels too big without Henry after that year in New York).   She sprinkles cinnamon onto her hot cocoa, listening to David coo at her baby brother.   Mary Margaret is studying the paper, her eyes scanning the headlines, fingers tapping against the table, and for a moment Emma remembers living here, just the two of them, drinking wine and talking about guys – before the curse broke, before things got complicated.  

 

Emma doesn’t have many girl friends – she’s always been one of the guys, been able to talk shit and throw down if she needed to – and Mary Margaret was one of her first, and there’s a part of her that misses that friendship, without the parental baggage and guilt over the curse. And that’s why she asks, in the end.

 

“Hey,” she says, “is there any other place to eat in town besides Granny’s?”

 

Mary Margaret looks up and away, clearly thinking. “Well, there’s that place by the pier – I’ve never been, but I hear that it’s lovely.” She glances over, a small smile playing on her lips. “Why do you ask?”

 

Emma shifts, looks down at her cocoa. “I’m thinking about asking Hook out.”

 

“On a date?” Emma doesn’t have to look up – she can see Mary Margaret’s raised eyebrows and wry smile, and while she doesn’t know what her mother thinks about him, she’s not going to care. She trusts him, and she wants to go out with him (wants to spend more time with him– that man can _kiss_ ).   So she just nods, and when she finally gets the courage to glance up at her mother, the expression on her face is pure, utter happiness.

 

“Do you have anything to wear?” Mary Margaret asks, and that is the moment that it really starts to go downhill.

 

She goes along with it – the look of earnest excitement on her mother’s face is something she hasn’t seen in some time, and she likes the way it makes her feel warm inside (the way that she always thought she would feel when her parents looked at her).   So she nods, and Mary Margaret’s smile only grows wider.

 

Emma tugs at the skirt of the dress (longer than she normally wears, and poofy too – she does not do retro chic, even if Mary Margaret rocks the twee angle well) and grabs her shoes, yet another thing she’s borrowed from her mother (because of course they’re the same shoe size, because this is what happens when your mother is Snow White).   He’s picking her up at the loft, and she’s nervous, more than nervous, this is something new and exciting and her mother has dressed her up like she’s going to a ball, like she’s always wanted to do.

 

In retrospect, that’s the point when she should have realized that something was wrong.

 

Killian shows up minus a hook, dressed in new clothes as well and there’s something about the way that he flexes the fingers of his newly-returned left hand, the way that he constantly touches his clothing, that Emma understands all too well.   She tries to concentrate on him, on them, tries to appreciate his new clothes (and she does, she really does, he cleans up well and she likes this new look) but there’s something off, a bad taste in her mouth that has nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with her. And maybe him. Just not _them_ \- in spite of the weirdness, in spite of the way that they’re both trying too hard, when she sees him smile at her, sees the tilt of his head and the way that he looks at her like she’s the only thing he sees…that’s different. That is real, even if everything else feels like an act.

 

But it’s only fitting that the night ends with a fistfight, and Emma screaming at him as she drags Will Scarlet out of the restaurant, heels clattering along the boardwalk, tears burning in her eyes. She wants to rip her hair out of this silly ponytail. She wants her jeans and her boots and her dates to be at fast food restaurants where she doesn’t have to worry about mispronouncing _prix fixe_.

  
But mostly, she wants Killian, and she doesn’t think that’s going to happen, not with the words she said, not with the way that she behaved.

 

She does not go to the loft that night; she takes the back stairs of Granny’s, climbing them slowly to her room, opening the door to the too-big too-silent room.   She toes off her shoes, feeling the shag carpet between her toes, before she reaches behind her for the belt, and then the zipper.   She hangs the dress up carefully, pulls the pins out of her hair and washes out all the hairspray, the shower burning hot, her shame burning even hotter.  

 

She’s too old to pretend to be someone else – that young girl she once was, an eager princess she can never be – and so is he. It’s not like they haven’t seen each other at their worst (she remembers Captain Hook in the Enchanted Forest, all swagger and sex, and she remembers the look in his eye when he warned her about himself). Their relationship is new, but it’s built on trust formed by chasing monsters and working together.   They know each other by now.

 

(Then why the hand? Why the dress? Does she even want to know what he had to do to get his hand back?)

 

She lingers in the shower, remembering the way that his hand felt against the small of her back, the touch of his fingers against her arm when he held out her chair for her - the way that he looked at her, at the loft, when she opened the door, so nervous and so anxious yet so excited, so happy.   She wants him to look at her like that again, wants him to be happy, wants to be the one that makes him smile. She wants more than botched dates and stupid responsibilities, and just when her brain’s about to spin out, to remind her that she’s the Savior which means she’s not supposed to get a day off or a date, the water turns freezing cold and she yelps, turning it off.

 

Even as she towels off, even as she gets ready for bed, her brain doesn’t return to that line of thinking even though she does want to, keeps dancing around it, ready to open old wounds, ready to wallow in her sadness. It keeps going back to that kiss in the street, to the way his eyes lit up when she asked him out, to the feel of his hand against the small of her back and the touch of his fingers against her arm. It keeps going back to the way that she felt when he kissed her, when he told her how much he excels at surviving, when he touched her at the restaurant. She felt different then –giddy, maybe, and ~~loved~~ treasured in a way that she normally doesn’t feel, in a way that no one’s made her feel _ever_ (not even Neal, not even when she was seventeen and eager and hopeful).

 

Emma snorts at the thought of feeling treasured by a pirate, laughs in the empty room, the sound loud in her ears, but it’s true. She may not be a prize but he’s placed some value on her that she’s not entirely sure she deserves, and that is why she spends the better part of the next day looking for him (but not before she picks up two sodas and some fries from Granny’s).

 

She finds him on the pier, nursing both his pride and the bruises on his left hand from when it collided with Will Scarlet’s face, and even though she sits down next to him, he doesn’t look at her immediately.  She wants to say something about the cost of the hand, whatever deal he struck with Gold to get it back, wants to remark that punching the thief is not a good use of his hand, but she doesn’t. She can feel the shame radiating off of him, can feel the tension between them, so she just hands him his soda before taking a sip of her own.

 

“The ice has probably melted,” she tells him, looking down at her cup. “It took me some time to find you.”   She doesn’t want to think about whatever congealed cheesy mess lurks in the bag she brought from Granny’s that she leaves on the table behind them.

 

“And why did you?” he asks. “I wasn’t exactly a gentleman last night, love.”

 

Emma can hear the edge in his voice, the coldness she’s come to expect from Captain Hook, and she just sighs. She does not want it to be like this, not when something special is growing between them, and she takes a sip of her soda before continuing.

 

“Because this is the kind of date that I’m good at – not a fancy restaurant in a borrowed dress, not salad forks and butter knives.” She pauses. “I wanted to do something nice with you, but I feel like I lost myself in the process.”

 

Killian flexes his left hand next to her, and when she glances over, she sees a bitter smile on his face.

 

“I know the feeling all too well,” he admits, and she shifts closer so that their shoulders are touching. She feels better automatically, and she wonders if he does too.

 

“I’m sorry that I yelled at you,” she says, at the same time that he apologizes, “I’m sorry for ruining our date,” but he adds, “bastard deserved it,” and she can’t help but laugh a little because he kind of did (she remembers Killian’s irate face at the date being interrupted, the way that he balled his hand into a fist as the thief gestured wildly and ranted about the ice queen).

 

“So I’m thinking we should just try a movie next time.” She glances over at him, catches him studying her carefully. She can’t read his expression – he’s as good at guarding himself as she is – but he just nods, even though she knows he has no clue what a movie is.  

 

“I’d like that,” he tells her quietly, and there’s movement as he puts the drink down behind him and he is slipping his hand into hers (she remembers the warmth of his hand after she almost froze to death, remembers how she sought it out, the warmth that always comes from him) and there’s a small shiver through her at the thought that he did this first. He kissed her first last time, and now he’s touching her, and they’re not saying anything but this is just…nice. Nicer than fancy food and high heels, nicer than playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.

 

“Did I tell you how utterly ravishing you looked last night?” he says, and she realizes his face is near hers, his breath warm on her neck, and she can’t help but smirk, can’t help but look over at him, their faces so close.

 

“Oh I know I looked good,” she tells him, watching his eyes dip down to her lips for a moment, “but why don’t you tell me again?”

 

The grin that he gives her in reply is worth all of the agony of getting her hair teased out by her mother, and wearing those shoes that pinched her toes, and eventually when she tires of compliments (“I have never seen a lovelier sight in my life”) she grabs the lapels of his vest and pulls him closer, pressing his lips against her own.

 

 

 

 


	4. more than this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post 4x12, Captain Swan speculation

Even without villains in town, it’s rare to catch a break – someone always wants something, and so Emma works hard to carve out the moments, to find time to spend with Killian away from everyone else.

 

The cot in her office is small, but that doesn’t stop them both from using it, limbs entangled, her head on his chest. Her fingers slip between the buttons of his shirt to find the skin underneath (he inhaled sharply the first time she did that, and so she does it every time now, enjoying the feel of him).   His hand rests on the small of her back, thumb brushing against her spine.

 

They talk (and do other things, stealing kisses, hands roaming) and it’s just _nice_. She’s not sure how it happened, this casual intimacy – sometimes it still feels like one day they were snarking at each other and now this, the lingering touches and lingering looks, the way that she fits into his side like she was meant to be there (and maybe she was). There’s an easiness to being with him that she likes, even if there were a few false-starts along the way – even if she has to let go in order to let him in.

 

(And sometimes, he needs to do the same.)

 

“Who were you, before this?” she asks one night, fingers reaching out to trace along his hook. She glances up to see him watching the movement of her hand with great attention, which is usually the look he gives before he schools his features to lie to her and –

 

“A pirate, love,” he says, with that smile that hides everything (she wants to kiss it away, wants it to break that nasty habit even though it’s been engrained for centuries, wants him to realize that she wants him, all of him, harsh truths and shady pasts).

 

“You weren’t born a pirate,” she tells him, shifting to her side to prop herself up, to look at him as he watches her cautiously, that false smile still on his lips.

 

“Now, how do you know that?” Killian responds, and _oh_ , he’s being coy, and Emma can play along with this.

 

“None of the stories talk about baby pirates,” she teases him, fingers moving to the collar of his shirt (his eyes flutter-close when her fingers brush against the charms he wears around his neck). “Besides, I know when you’re not telling me the truth.”

 

“Your superpower,” he remarks, opening his eyes (so blue in this harsh light) and Emma shakes her head.

 

“Maybe,” she says, even though it’s half-true – her powers and his tell combine to make her see through his words, and she leans over, presses a soft kiss against his lips, feels him try to capture her mouth and take this deeper (and she wants it, but right now she wants to know about him more).

 

“Tell me,” she says, softly, lips hovering over his own, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, and she can feel his answering breath, deep and long, throughout her body.

 

“I was in the Navy,” he says, voice low and quiet, his hand still making gentle movements on the small of her back. “And so was my brother.”

 

She listens, head against his chest, enjoying the way that they fit together. His heart thunders in her ear and she curls into him more, clutching at this small moment, trying to remember every bit of it.

 

(And when the villains arrive, as they must, she clings to it tighter as all hell breaks loose.)


End file.
